Firebrand
by LittleBabeBlue
Summary: Life is wonderful and terrible and beautiful and ugly and happy and sad and complicated and oh, so confusing. Life is too short. I've burned too quickly, too brightly and now I'm watching the embers crumble to dust. But what else could be the fate of a firebrand? Written by ALazyFriend


**Disclaimer: Hey, guys, alright first of all I am NOT LittleBabeBlue (sadly, she is a MUCH better writer than me). And second, this is my first Harry Potter story. Reviews are always appreciated, praise or criticism. Oh, yeah and I don't own Harry Potter or any characters you recognize. Trust me, if I did, you'd know.**

Prologue

It was a muggy day in London. Ladies and men hurried through the crowded streets with sweat streaming down their faces. The oppressive heat was unnatural and discomfiting to those used to constant rain and grey skies.

The cabbie meandered his way through the congested streets. Cars were lined up bumper to bumper and some were honking with impatience. The Cabbie, called Mick by his friends, Cadwell by his acquaintances, was chomping on a cigar, as he peered gloomily at the traffic obscuring his view. He wasn't a particularly inquisitive man, (he had learned through his long years as a taxi driver not to ask) but the slim, red head in the back intrigued him.

She was young, with a soft face, overlarge brown eyes, and unruly red hair that tumbled down her back. That didn't interest him, he got plenty young tarts riding his cabs. She was smartly dressed, if a bit shabbily, and if he had to pin her, he would have guessed she was an Oxford student.

She had seemed anxious, when she had flagged him down. Her eyes were wide, and she was shaking, one of her feet tapping the pavement below. She had breathlessly asked him, if he could drive her to 101 Mulberry Street, and had leaped into the car, barely waiting for his reply. She had remained silent in the car, giving curt answers to his friendly questions, and spent most of the time, staring out the window.

It was probably a fight with her boyfriend, that she was eager to mend, but he couldn't help but feel worried for the girl. She reminded him of his own daughter, who had recently gotten married to a nice bloke from Wales. He couldn't help but feel slightly protective about her.

He pedaled the car, turning off the main road, into only slightly less traffic. It was late evening and he couldn't help thinking longingly of the time when his shift would end. He glanced back at his passenger. Her eyes were now glued forward. She was perched on the end of her seat, practically bouncing in anticipation.

He wasn't going to bother to ask.

He turned into an alleyway road, they were barely five minutes away from the destination. Just another turn…

The impact was immediate. There was blast of energy. He could barely hear the screech of metal on metal or the pedestrian screams, before he was enveloped in sickening white light, as he was thrown forward into the windshield.

The hospital room was stark and blindingly white. The monitor beeped, a slow, consitant, very _irritating _noise. He was disoriented and dizzy, and spent most of the time just staring at the hairline cracks in the ceiling.

He had broken his leg, and nearly his neck. A man, obviously a drunk, had been speeding down the road, before crashing into his cab. The man had gotten through with only a few bruises and scratches. _He _would be stuck in the hospital bed for a month. The nurse had smiled the whole time she had explained this to him.

His passenger had not made it. That, he had only learned a few days ago, when he had overheard a couple of the nurses conversing in hushed whispers, and wringing their hands. He had asked the next one he came across.

He could never forget the look on her face. The bright, cheery smile she had plastered on her face, had slid off almost instantaneously. She had made a furitive glance towards the doorway, as if expecting help, before stuttering her answer.

"Well, you see… Mr. Cadwell…. Your passenger… She's…well, she's, _dead._ Her family came to get her body 5 days ago." The last part was in a rush. "No one blames _you. _Of course." She had taken one look of his face and stopped talking. She had quickly checked the monitor before practically sprinting out of the room.

_So…_

She was dead.

It pounded at him, night and day. That young, pretty, anxious girl, that had so reminded him of his daughter, was now nothing but a corpse lying in the dead ground. And it was partially his fault.

It made him feel sick.

Vaguely, as the days went by, he wondered what she had been so desperate to reach. He wondered who exactly she had been. And he wondered if there could have been anyway, that she could have survived.

He knew that she would always haunt him.


End file.
